


Love and War

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, American Civil War, F/F, Graphic War Imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:14:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4651884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cosette is a field nurse for the Union in the American Civil War, and she thought she has seen it all - that is, until she gets a young soldier in her hospital tent, a woman disguised as a man, desperate to find her brother at any cost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and War

**Author's Note:**

> Rated mature for graphic war imagery. 
> 
> This is set in the American Civil War. For those of you who are unfamiliar, this is a war between the North and South of the USA in 1861-1865. It was mostly over the freeing of the slaves and the South (aka the Confederates, rebels) wanting to cede to be a separate territory from the North (aka the Union, Yankees, blue coats). It was very bloody and disgusting, and cost over 600,000 men their lives. 
> 
> I find it an interesting time in history and love studying it, so please hit me up if it also interests you.

It’s late evening, but it’s sweltering, and no matter how tight she ties the cotton cloth around her nose, all Cosette can smell is decaying flesh.

Wearily, she wipes a good half a centimeter of sweat off her forehead, blinks away the mist in her eyes that the heat created, and continues to stitch up the young man’s leg. She’s almost done, only a few more pulls through, but her hands are starting to shake, her fingers are moist with sweat and blood, and the needle is starting to slip through her fingers. Luckily, Cosette was able to extract the minié bullet from his leg, so more than likely it won’t have to be amputated, but she’s slightly worried that her sleep deprived and overworked body will betray her into making a mistake on the poor boy.

Her knees hurt from where she’s been kneeling in the dirt, caking her once-white dress in Earth, dried blood, horse feces, and the grime of war, and once again she wonders idly why they can’t spare a chair for her.

Brushing away a lock of hair that’s fallen into her eyes, she takes a deep, puffing breath, and ties the final stitch. She’s tired and weary and desperately wants to go back to her papa’s farm, but, looking at what’s she’s done for this young lad, she knows she’s where she’s meant to be.

“You’re all stitched up,” she says, wiping her hands on her dress. The young man gives her what she assumes is a ‘thank you smile,’ but is really just a pained grimace. Cosette sympathizes, although it’s a look that she’s seen on a thousand men’s faces in the past thousand days.

“Thank you miss,” the man says, just as Cosette is standing. Startled, she looks back down.

He’s clearly very young, and more than likely lied about his age to be drafted. He’s in a Northern uniform, the dark blue contrasting against his pale, sickly skin. It hangs off him loose, so slack that Cosette can’t even come near telling where his chest ends and stomach begins.

“You should really try to deepen your voice if you don’t want to raise suspicion,” she advises, eyebrows raised. The man flushes violently, and looks down.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” he says, voice an octave lower. Cosette stifles a grin.

“Here, let me help you sit up.” She lowers herself back down next to the metal field hospital bedframe, and wraps an arm around his shoulders. Slowly, she eases him up, his arms shaking with the effort of trying to help. Halfway to sitting, he hisses in pain, and reaches over to grab his side.

“Are you all right?” Cosette grabs his shoulder, trying to balance him, as he faces away, twisted in pain and shame.

“Fine, fine, please go, please.” The voice is back to its high lilt, and is so infused with agony that Cosette can’t help but lean down, and grab his hand.

“You’re not fine. I’m here to help you. Show me where it hurts, please.” The man shakes his head, his cropped, matted hair showering sweat over Cosette.

“Is it here?” she asks, placing a soft hand against the boy’s side. Cosette takes the hiss of pain as a yes. The boy is still hunched over, face hidden, and Cosette wants to scream and shout in the face of whoever told him that it’s noble to hide your hurt.

“Okay, I’m going to help you, but I need you to sit up so I can take off your shirt.”

“No,” the boy gasps. “Not the shirt.”

“There’s no need for modesty,” she chastises. “I’ve seen everything there is to see.” She doesn’t add that she’s seen far too much – she had hoped idly that the first time she would see a man intimately would be on her wedding night, but unfortunately, it was when a young Confederate man was screaming in pain, begging her to make it stop hurting, to sew it back on, to bring back his manhood, as she sat stunned and shocked into paralyzation. Now, she doubts it would even blink twice.

“Not modesty.” The boy is breathing laboriously, and Cosette is on the verge of actually being annoyed at this half-dying teenager on her hospital bed and his false sense of propriety.

“What’s your name?” Cosette asks, rubbing his shoulder.

“Jon,” the boy says, after a suspiciously long pause. “Jondret.”

“Jon,” Cosette repeats. “Okay, Jon, no one else is around.” She gestures around the white, flapping tent, which is indeed empty of any conscious men. Most of the army is in bed by this time, and almost all patients have already been taken care of, discharged, or died; the rest are fast asleep. Jon was the very last, given his condition was fairly stable and he was not screaming for help. The camp is mostly slumbering by this point, and Cosette aches to join them.

“Please,” Jon says, his head starting to bob with fatigue. “Please.”

Cosette isn’t sure what he’s asking for, but is fairly sure that she’s not able to give it to him anyway. He’s obviously worn out, his young body probably not used to the harsh realities of the military, nor the physical strain of large and painful wounds.

Gently, she guides him back to a laying position, moving his limbs so he’s almost straight. His head is lolling now, tongue sticking out, and arm pinned an awkward angle. Cosette makes quick work of the hot, blue cotton coat, and maneuvers it off him as gently as she can. The suspenders are next, moving down to his legs. All that remains is the loose white shirt, and Cosette can see that the entire right side of it is drenched in dark red blood. Quickly, she undoes the buttons, and slides it off his shoulders, before flinching back, gasping in surprise.

The small, bayonet-sized ugly wound she expected.

The white gauze clearly binding down breasts, she did not.

* * *

Cosette is awoken by violent, labored coughs, mixing with soft, short, agonized cries. She starts, head foggy and out of place, before her gaze narrows and focuses on the young soldier on the bed.

Cosette had made quick work of the bayonet wound, stitching it and cauterizing it best she could, before wrapping it and carefully redoing the shirt and coat. After, she lumbered over to the head nurse’s station, and begged for a chair off Joly, a young nurse who graciously lent Cosette her wooden stool, despite her wounded leg. Cosette had been careful taking it back to the tent, trying her best not to trip over fallen guns, holes in the earth, or other military waste. The walk back was almost uneventful, but just as she’s within a hundred yards of the tent the young, undercover girl is lying, she walks past the severed limb pile.

More often than not, Cosette tries to take the long path, just so she won’t pass it. It’s enormous after the Battle of Devil’s Backbone, a hard won victory for the Union Army, and the pile of discarded limbs is far bigger than her entire private tent. It’s not even the sight of it that bothers her anymore – simply the smell, that horrible, rotting, warm smell that sticks in your nose hairs, coming in at every breath.

Possibly it’s because it’s been a long and difficult day, but more likely she’s just bone weary and has lost some of the inner resolve she swore was at the core of her; war takes much from you, but nothing more than your belief in your own fortitude. She vomits, long and hard, and spends a moment too long being nauseated by that smell before she continues on her way.

She intended to stay by the girl’s side until she woke, but her eyelids were heavy, and her lantern was starting to dim. The moon outside cast a serene glow around the camp, and it’s almost easy to believe that the men under the tents will wake up the next day smiling in free-willed camaraderie, instead of spending the next night moaning into the earth in tortured agony after they’ve been shot to the ground, defending a cause they aren’t even sure they still believe in.

Her dreams were short lived, because it’s about 2AM when the girl awakens, coughing up blood, and Cosette tries to ignore the heavy, sleep caused pressure on her chest, and slides to the girl’s side.

“Breathe, just breathe, you’ll be all right,” she soothes, petting the crudely cut hair. It takes a minute, but the girl’s breath evens, and she’s able to lift her head.

“Thank you,” she rasps, lips chapped, throat parched. Cosette picks up a canteen off the ground, and lets the girl drink.

“Thank you,” she repeats, her chin now glistening in water.

“I cleaned both wounds,” Cosette says. “And was sure to put your jacket back exactly as I found it.” The girl’s eyes widen, and her face goes white and still with panic as she realizes the implications of Cosette’s sentence.

“Did you tell—”

“No,” Cosette mutters. “Though I’m not sure why.”

“Thank you, miss, thank you.”

“You could be killed,” Cosette says, swallowing.

“I could be killed any moment. This is war.”

“But to be murdered for something as pointless as your sex—”

“To be murdered for something as pointless as this war,” the girl counters. Cosette falters.

“The war is not pointless,” she says weakly. “Lincoln is trying to create a better world for the slaves of the South—”

“I am not here for the slaves of the South,” the girl interrupts. “You’re welcome to your selflessness and good intentions, but that’s not my story.”

“What is your story?” Cosette asks. “How does someone like you make into war?”

“Is that your business?”

“It’s either my business or the commanding officer’s. Take your pick.” The girl glares, but the sweat on her brow and tired shake of her hands tells Cosette that she knows she’s not in charge here.

“I’m here to find my brother,” the girl says at last. “He’s twelve, but a large twelve, and he pretended to be sixteen. That’s still illegal, but they still accepted him to run messages across the lines. He believes in the war effort to his core, like it’s not the President just being a rebel with a cause he deems noble.” She coughs, raking and hard, and Cosette finds herself soothing the girl’s back.

“We’re from a southern cotton plantation,” the girl says, and Cosette’s hand stills. “My brother hated it. I’m ashamed of it, but it never mattered to me until he started screaming about why it should. We both should be a part of the Confederate army, and I even might, but he faked records saying he’s from Michigan, so he’s Union.”

“I don’t understand why you’re here,” Cosette says quietly. The girl turns her head, staring. “Your brother – okay, he believed in the cause. But you? You’ve already admitted you’re a rebel.” She tries not to say it with too much distaste, and knows she doesn’t succeed.

“I don’t agree with the rebels,” she snaps. “I’d be on the Yankee side anyway, if we’re talking core beliefs. I just don’t agree with Lincoln standing on a pulpit, telling us that our lives are a sacrifice he’s willing to make.” She closes her eyes. “I’m here to keep my brother safe.”

“You can’t keep him safe in war,” Cosette says, and she knows she’s right.

“I want to take him away,” the girl says, voice cracking. “Gavroche can’t die. I’ll find him, and I’ll pull him away, and force him to come North with me. I know I can get a job, and he’s a clever boy. We’d survive.” Personally, Cosette doesn’t see how she would possibly get the boy to leave, considering he left his entire family and life to lie to become a soldier.

“But you can’t be a soldier. Being a woman soldier is a crime.”

“You say that with so much bitterness.” The woman’s smile is wry. “You should be angry, not bitter. Bitterness eats on you, not doing anything, just preying on its host. Anger can make you march; it can make you kill in spite. Trust me.”

“Being a nurse is enough for me,” Cosette says, clenching her fists.

“Is it?”

“You should be glad it is, because it just saved your life, and will continue to.”

“Thank you, my nurse, for that, if nothing else.”

“Cosette,” she offers. “My name is Cosette.”

“Eponine,” the girls says, and it’s the first grin she receives that doesn’t feel like a lie.

“I’ll keep your secret,” Cosette says after a moment, staring at the lamp flicker.

“I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow.”

“No.” Cosette shakes her head, and some sweat-damp hair falls out of her bun into her face. “You won’t be healthy enough.”

“I’ll man up and deal with it,” Eponine says, and Cosette almost grins at the jest before her professionalism takes over.

“Manning up and dealing with it is not an acceptable analgesic,” she says firmly. “Rest. We’ll discuss it when the sun comes. The camp is moving out soon.”

“Out of Arkansas?” Eponine asks. “That’s good to hear. Will we move away from the smell of rotting flesh in the summer?”

Cosette simply squeezes her shoulder, not wanting to tell her that it is the smell of war, and never disappears.

“Sleep, my friend,” she says. She carefully takes Joly’s chair, and slips out of the tent.

The night is in its darkest hour, and she treads carefully over the moon-lit grass. She puts the chair outside of Joly’s tent, and carefully slips into her own. The canvas billows softly as she wipes her face and body with a towel, dipping it into the metal bowl she was given. She lets her hair loose, and grimaces slightly when it stays in the basic form of a bun. Oh, how she misses the stream outside her papa’s house, and his nice soap he buys from the neighbor across the yard.

She slips into the scratchy bed, head full of thoughts of young women charging into battle, blood trickling from both their bodies and their legs, screaming high pitched yells of righteous, angry fury.

When she wakes, she is not rested.

* * *

The day is long and full of terrors, and by the time Cosette is finishing rebandaging a man’s brain to stay inside his skull, she is wishing she had more for lunch than just a bowl full of beans and rice. To think of food at a time like this would have seemed foreign at the start of war, but adapting is a matter of necessity after a time.

She’s standing, wiping off her hands on her dress, when a very young boy skips up to her.

“Miss Cosette Fauchelevent?” the boy asks, managing not the mangle her last name. She smiles at him, and nods.

“I am she.”

“I have a letter for you.” The boy dips into his messenger bag, and hands her a torn, yellowed envelope.

“Thank you,” she says, hands shaking in excitement, and he tips his hat and sends her a smile that makes her pause. He dips out of the medical tent, and she wonders silently why that smile looked so striking when she's seen this boy several times before. Shrugging to herself, she opens the worn letter.

It’s from her papa, from months and months before, telling of the farm and the mill. Cosette’s eyes prickle with homesickness, and by the time she finishes the letter, her heart is as heavy as her bones. She notices the lack of a return address, and is grateful he’s remembering to be careful – he’s not running away from the draft, not exactly, but his silence is not strictly legal, and he shouldn’t draw attention to himself.

She’s standing in the middle of a field, hand to her eyes, when she feels a hand on her shoulder.

“Miss Fauchelevent, a patient is asking for you.”

She bares a smile, and follows him into the medical tent.

Eponine is now sitting, looking thoroughly irate. When she catches sight of Cosette, she lifts a hand, beckoning her over.

“Cosette, tell these nurses to leave me the fuck alone.”

“They’re stopping you from leaving, as they should,” she says, walking up beside her. Her shoe is standing in something soupy, and she refuses to look down to see what it is.

“They are trying to rebandage my chest wound,” Eponine says, pointed, angry. Cosette blinks.

“I left explicit instructions that redressing his wounds would be left to me,” Cosette bites, turning to the young nurses. “Or did you not read the note I clearly left by his bedside table?”

“The head nurse told us to redress his wounds, miss,” one mumbles, looking at her feet.

“You do not defy express written instructions by me for any reason. There is a specific medicine I am using on Jon here, and I cannot have my studies disrupted, do you understand me?”

There’s a chorus of yes ma’ams, and they shuffle away.

“Come to my tent,” Cosette says after they’ve left, placing a hand on Eponine’s elbow. “I’ll redress them there.”

“Won’t someone think we are up to something immoral?” Eponine gives her sharp grin, and it reminds Cosette slightly of the wolf her father once shot in their woods.

“There’s too much going on around here. No one will notice. And even if they did, no one cares. This is war – so what if the soldier is relieving tension with a nurse, or a soldier with another soldier? It’s only in times of peace we can afford to hate one another for societal norms.”

“Aren’t you a charmer,” Eponine mutters, and struggles to sit up. Her face twists as she holds her side, and Cosette is quick to offer her own arm in support. Eponine takes it, but with her scowl, Cosette is willing to lay down cash that Eponine is not used to accepting help from anyone. 

They make their way to Cosette’s tent, and just as she expected, no one pays them the slightest glance. She guides Eponine down onto her cot; once she’s seated, Cosette spends a moment tying her door shut tight, and placing a box directly in front. It’s the best she can do for security.

“I’ll be quick about the chest wound, just in case,” she says, moving towards Eponine, who grunts in affirmation. She tries to be quick, but the wound is sticking to the gauze, and she knows it must be painful. She wipes it quickly with water, clearing away some dried blood.

“I might want to redo a couple of these stitches,” she says. “I have some whiskey for you, to help dull the pain.” She searches around her bed, knowing she left her needles somewhere underneath, and finds them halfway buried in the dirt. Sighing, she wipes off the needle on her dress, and goes to thread it. A hand lands on hers, and as she looks up, she sees Eponine’s grave face.

“Do not,” she says. “I am asking you to not.”

“It may be fine with what you have,” Cosette says, laying her hand on top of Eponine’s. “But I’m not sure.”

“It’ll take time that we do not have,” Eponine says. “Readminister the gauze, and let me put my shirt back on.” Cosette nods. She finishes quickly, and as soon as she proclaims it done, Eponine turns, struggling to put the jacket on.

“You do the part well,” Cosette comments, as she’s pulling on the jacket. “I thought you a young boy at first. I doubt anyone will believe you’re a female. Do you fight well?”

“On the battlefield, I am fierce,” she says, with a tone that instantly makes Cosette believe her.

“How did you become so?” she asks, moving to bandage her leg.

“You do not grow up on a slave farm without having savagery as a facet of your personality.” Cosette’s hand stills slightly, before picking up again. “Of course, I was a _lady,_ ” she scorns. “So it was all by observation, a fact I don’t mind now.”

“As a lady, did watching give you the skills to adapt to the war?” Cosette asks, not knowing if she wants to know the answer.

“There is no reason a woman would have a harder time adapting to war than a man, given the same circumstances,” Eponine says. It’s a radical statement, but one that Cosette cannot find herself disagreeing with – after all, she had more than one male practitioner faint and fall in the line of service, while she stood firm, wiping her hands of dripping blood and never letting herself stop.

“You’re a brave soul,” Cosette remarks, wrapping a new bandage around the leg. “You’ve dealt with your injuries strongly, and you’ve held the brunt of war, so I’ve seen. May I ask you a question?”

“I believe you’ve earned that much,” Eponine says. She’s lying down, facing the ceiling of the tent, her hat tipping off her head. Cosette knows that she’s perhaps slightly too empathetic with every soldier through her line, but she can’t help fiercely wishing this girl had been born into a different situation, one that didn’t force her to become a fierce, bloodied warrior, one that allowed her to be a strong woman of the world.

“Why did you choose to join the war? You could have just scouted the camps, and come as a visitor, and grab your brother that way. It may have been more difficult, but much less dangerous.”

“For one,” Eponine says, teeth grinding. “It’s easier. It is easier to travel with the army, and much simpler to get information if you look like a soldier. Much more importantly, my _lady,_ is that would be a coward’s way out.”

“That wouldn’t be cowardly,” Cosette says, frowning. “Concern for yourself does not equate cowardice.”

“I have the ability to be a soldier, thus I should be, and not a spy from the outside.”

“All of these men,” Cosette says, sweeping her arms around. “Have the _ability_ to be a soldier. All these young boys with their lives ahead of them, all these men with children. Does that mean they all should?”

“I am worth more than sitting on the sidelines,” Eponine snaps, sitting up abruptly. Cosette clenches the bed, willing herself to stay calm.

“I don’t doubt you are, but that doesn’t mean your pride is worth your life.”

“I will swallow my blood before I swallow my pride,” Eponine says, tone final. Cosette forces herself not to comment that she probably will have to.

“You’re finished,” she says, and pats Eponine’s leg, if only to see her wince, to remind her she’s mortal. “And if you want to rescue your brother, I think you’d do it better alive.”

Eponine’s jaw ticks, but she still grabs Cosette’s arm, holding it hard.

“Gavroche. I heard he’s here – that’s why I’m in this infantry. Is there any way to find out? Anyone I can talk to?”

“Not in your condition,” Cosette says. “Give yourself a couple days before you hobble around. I’ll find you a cane.”

Eponine looks severely displeased with this information, and it makes Cosette’s heart melt slightly.

“I’ll ask around for you.”

Eponine doesn’t say a word, but her sigh of relief is thanks enough for Cosette.

* * *

Cosette manages to forget that she’s left a bloodied, disguised soldier on her bed, and is thus abruptly surprised when she comes in to sleep that night.

“Took you long enough. What do you do all day?”

“Medicine,” Cosette answers, still surprised. “I’m sorry I left you all day.”

“That’s okay. I went and looked at the lake a bit. It’s a nice place to camp out, if not at all practical.”

“You shouldn’t be on that leg,” Cosette admonishes, sitting down next to her. “How does you feel?”

“It hurts all over,” Eponine says, slightly too grave to only mean the external injuries. “I also snooped around your tent a bit. Your father sounds nice.”

“You read my letters?” Cosette asks, horrified. “Those are private!”

“You left me alone for eight hours in a seven by seven tent. What did you expect me to do, write wars songs about how wonderful nurses are?”

“I’m not here so they write songs about me,” Cosette snaps. “I want to go home. And those letters are all I have reminding me of why I need to keep myself going, keep myself alive. I do not want them ruined by uncareful hands.”

“I’m sorry,” Eponine says, voice softer. “Not that I read the letters, but that you forget.”

“He’s all I have.”

“Why?” Eponine asks, and Cosette can feel her throat closing up, and her eyes prickling, and as she hunches in on herself, she wills herself not to cry in front of this indomitable, stouthearted girl who most likely has no patience for tears.

“There’s no one left,” she says, unwilling, or perhaps just unable, to tell of her fallen mother, deserted friends, and fiancé that came back from the first months of war only as a letter and tag from his commanding officer.

“Sometimes I think the greatest pain in the world isn’t these wounds we give each other,” Eponine says, gesturing to her bullet hole. “But the grief you feel at being left when others have gone.”

Cosette nods, head in her hands.

“That’s why I’m here,” Eponine says. “So I don’t have to feel it. I felt the panic at the possibility of losing him, but I refuse to feel the grief. Any amount of bullets is worth that. I wish I didn’t have to choose his safety over my life, but since it seems to be coming to that, I will – I will in a heartbeat. Wouldn’t you, for your father?”

Cosette reaches over, and grasps her hand.

“Do you not think your brother would do the same for you, if he knew you were here? Do you not think he wants to keep you safe?”

“I am not worth his worry,” and Cosette doesn’t know how to make her see that this cannot be the case, and that a woman so willing to go so far for one teenager’s life is worth far more than all the railroads in the world.

Cosette just shakes her head, and starts dressing down for bed. She knows she should move Eponine back to the infirmary, but she’s going to let her selfishness choose happiness, if only for tonight, so she slips into the bed, holds another person to her chest, and for the first time in a year – she prays.

* * *

“Why have we not left yet?” Eponine asks. It’s been only two days since her injury, but Eponine has convinced Cosette to let her see the sunset over the lake. They are side by side, and Cosette should really be organizing the medicinal supplies, but the fresh air is reviving and healing enough that she can convince herself she’s still helping her patient.

“I’m not sure,” Cosette says. “I’m just a nurse. But I do think we may become a problem; I’m sure scouts know where the camp is by now. I worry about an attack.”

“I should get going soon,” Eponine says, and Cosette feels her hand clench into the soft Earth, giving her a handful dirt that sifts quickly back into the ground. “As soon as I can ride a horse. I need to find him.”

“Are you tired of the sunsets?” Cosette asks, gesturing to the beautiful rays of color, the reds that for once don’t mean pain and screams.

“I think I need a sunrise,” Eponine answers, and leans into Cosette’s shoulder. She reaches her arm around, and holds her close. 

* * *

“Miss Fauchelevent,” she hears, and as she turns, she sees the young messenger boy again. “I have a letter for you.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you always delivering these to me,” she says, reaching for the letter.

“Just happy to help, Cosette,” he says tipping his hat.

He’s about to leave, and she searches his uniform for a name to bid him goodbye with.

“Thank you again, Mr. Thénardier.” The boy makes a face.

“The name’s Gavroche,” he says, tipping his hat again. Her face goes taut and pale, and the boy takes the moment to go running, finding the next person on her list. By the time she comes to herself, he’s gone.

* * *

“Eponine,” Cosette says tensely, the moment she walks into the tent. Eponine’s laying on the bed, looking bored, and playing with a stick. She glances over at Cosette.

“Yes?”

“I’ve found him; I’ve found Gavroche.” She sits up immediately, winces slightly at her side, but looks breathless at Cosette.

“Where?” she asks, holding on to the bed frame, trying to stand. Cosette walks over, and pushes her back down, sitting.

“He’s the messenger boy. I’ve been seeing him for weeks and didn’t even know. I’ll be able to find him easily. What do you want me to say to him?”

“Nothing. You’re not to be involved in this. I’ll do it.”

“No,” Cosette says firmly. “You’re injured. I can handle talking to a boy; tell me what to say.”

“No,” Eponine says again, trying to stand. Her uniform is still practically falling off her, and Cosette is suddenly absurdly angry at her frail frame, a body that comes from years and years of malnutrition and neglect, not simply a month of war.

“I am already a part of this,” she snaps. “Let me help.”

“I will not have you being dishonorably discharged on my account if this comes to light. They need you here.” Eponine’s skin is going red, and she’s clinging to the cotton blanket with enough force to cause a tear.

“It’ll be fine.”

“They could _kill you_ for helping deserters!” Eponine yells, too loud. “You don’t deserve that.”

“I’ve survived everything up to this, so something tells me I’ll survive this as well.”

“I don’t want you hurt for me,” Eponine’s voice sways. “You’ve helped so much already; you’ve healed me; you’ve kept my secrets; you shouldn’t have to play military spy and insurgent aide as well.”

“I want to,” Cosette says, grabbing her hand. “This war is full of heinous acts and terrible tragedy. I know in the future, millions of people will be better off for it. But I don’t know any of them. I want it to have a good ending for somebody visible, somebody I can see. There’s no reason that shouldn’t be you.”

“In the future,” Eponine says, turning towards Cosette, grasping her hand. “They’ll only say what we won. Freedom for slaves, unity for the country. They’ll never say what we lost. You’ll never make it to a textbook.”

“Didn’t I already tell you? I don’t need strangers writing songs about me. You’re enough.”

“I’m never enough,” Eponine says. Cosette looks her in the eye.

“You’re enough.”

It’s late, and with Cosette’s promise that she will find him immediately the next day, they fall asleep in one another’s arms, and Cosette desperately hopes that in the morning Eponine’s eyes will still look as bright.

* * *

They awake an hour before dawn to the howling of a wolf. They stay silent in each other’s arms, and Cosette can feel Eponine’s chest breathing, up and down, up and down, and she rests herself against it. They lay there, the moon still hung, the night so black the darkness hums.

“Cosette,” Eponine murmurs. Cosette can feel it against her neck. She hums back, and Eponine can feel the vibrations. “Can you take off the gauze on my chest?”

“Are you sure?” she asks, letting her hand rest where the binding lay under the jacket.

“It’s been on so long. And—” she swallows. “I trust you.” Cosette doesn’t answer, but carefully sits up, and quietly removes the dark blue, mud caked jacket. She slides it off, laying it carefully beside the bed, and makes work on the buttons. The white shirt, now closer to a brownish-grey, falls on top of the jacket. It’s dark, but Cosette can still make out Eponine in her entirety – the cropped, dark hair lying flat, the tanned, freckled skin, the dark, old eyes watching her every move. Cautiously, she unwraps the binding. As it comes free, she is careful to place it where it won’t be ruined on mistake. Eponine’s chest is finally free, and Cosette can feel her sigh of relief.

“Does the binding hurt?” She asks, lying back down beside Eponine.

“Yes,” Eponine asks, and Cosette appreciates the honesty.

“I’m sorry this is something you must do.”

“Hopefully, there will come a day when women are not forced into this situation.”

“Maybe someday they’ll stop war. Maybe by the year 2000, they’ll stop killing to solve problems.”

“That's in 150 years. 150 years ago, America didn’t even exist. Who knows what will happen in another 150 years? Maybe they will. By God – who would have thought we had come far enough that slavery is no longer legal?”

“It’s oddly calming,” Cosette says into Eponine’s shoulder. “To be reminded that the dark can end.”

“The sun will rise over peace and war,” Eponine says, and Cosette isn’t sure what she means, so she stays quiet, hooking her chin around Eponine’s shoulder. They’re flush together, and as Eponine shifts, Cosette is supremely grateful that she’s able to experience this.

“Do you remember when you said that it doesn’t matter if a soldier relives tension with a nurse?”

“Yes,” Cosette says. “I do.”

“Do you still believe that?”

“I do.”

“And no one needs to know?”

“No one can.”

She feels, rather than sees, Eponine nod, and when her mouth comes flush with hers, Cosette is not surprised.

* * *

After their long, pleasurable, calm morning together, Cosette’s resolve hardens to find Gavroche. After talking with far too many disinterested soldiers, she finally comes close to the tent she’s looking for. She sees Gavroche inside, and he smiles when she comes in.

“Hello, Miss Cosette. To what do I owe the honor?”

“I have news regarding your sister, Eponine.” His face changes immediately, and he quickly closes the tent’s flap.

“How do you know about her?” he asks seriously.

“She came to my tent some few days ago, injured.”

“Injured? Your tent? How?”

“She’s disguised as a man, and is fighting in the army.”

“Fuck,” he says, and she’s almost surprised into chastising him for swearing in front of a lady. “Is she all right?”

“She will be fine, but she wants to see you, immediately. She wants you out of the war.”

“I can’t leave,” he says, tapping his foot, distressed. Cosette isn’t surprised.

“You wouldn’t be leaving for you. You’d be leaving for her.”

“I’d be disgraced, a run away. I don’t want to tarnish my history with dishonor.”

“You’d do it in the name of saving your sister’s life.” She says, voice firm. “The heroes of history – are they a hero because of their loyalty to a cause or to goodness? Can anyone tell the difference?”

“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know. All I know is she needs to leave here,” he says, pacing, and suddenly she can see how young he truly is.

“She’s more equipped for war than you are,” she says gently.

“I don’t want to go.” Gavroche sits back down, and shoves his head in his hands. Suddenly, Cosette realizes that the hiccup in his voice isn’t from emotion; it’s for the lie.

“It’s not indignity not to enjoy war,” she says, coming to sit by him. “It’s not shameful to want to leave.”

“I thought people would tell stories about me. About the terrifying, brave things I did for the sake of the righteous, the people.”

“I’m going to tell terrifying, brave stories about what a young girl did for the sake of love – and if you go, you give that story meaning.” He looks up at her with tear streaked cheeks and watery eyes, and she’s thinks he’d say yes, but they’re interrupted by a cannon shot, and then an explosion, only a yard away from their tent.

She and Eponine were right – sitting at the same site for days left them a sitting duck for the Confederate army.

* * *

Outside, it’s chaos. Cosette keeps a firm hand on Gavroche, steering him roughly towards her tent, towards where Eponine is hiding out. Bullets steak past their heads, and Cosette can smell the musky, overwhelming stench of gunpowder.

Everywhere, people are screaming and yelling. A man goes down right in front of their feet, bullet hit in what is probably his stomach, and blood is erupting out of his mouth, splashing everywhere, drowning him. She pulls Gavroche along at a run, jumping over piles of injured men, ignoring the whizz of gunfire by their heads. Cannonballs are coming from everywhere, making dust erupt in the air, stinging their eyes and throats.

It’s the sound of unholy war – the scream of the injured, the boom of cannon’s that echo in their hearts, the yelling from generals, the neighing of horses, the confused commotion of men trying to find their weapons.

They’ve almost made it back, their tent in sight, when Cosette catches sight of a Confederate soldier rushing towards them from the right.

With a lurch, she realizes two things at once – firstly, that he’s headed straight towards Gavroche. She’s not only a lady, but also not uniformed – he’d most certainly go for the obvious soldier, the man. Secondly, there is no time to forewarn Gavroche, no way to make him move in time, no way to defend themselves.

So with tears in her eyes, shaky hands, and her pulse echoing in her ears, she asks herself what’s worth fighting for.

And with a push, Gavroche is falling onto his stomach, and the man doesn’t have time to stop his momentum. The bayonet pierces her, and she falls forwards, a bow towards death.

* * *

Time slows. She can hear the war going on around her, but it’s faded to background noise. The only thing she recognizes is the feel of mud on her face, and the idle recognition of warm blood pooling in between her stomach and dress. Vaguely, she feels hands in her hair, and then there’s a sharp, searing pain, a pain that brings everything into focus – the noise, the wound, the stench, and she’s completely unaware she’s screaming until there’s a handkerchief stuffed into her mouth.

“Don’t bite your tongue,” she hears a voice say, a young male voice, and she’s being lifted.

Another voice joins him, and all she can see is the sky above her, her head lolling around the boy’s elbows. She wonders if it’s as blue above her papa’s farm.

“Shit, shit,” she hears a voice say, and this one is higher, probably female. A hand is being raked through her hair, and she can feel herself being placed on the bed.

“Cosette, you need to tell me what to do. Please tell me what to do.” Trying to gain her coherency back, she forces her eyes to focus on the face talking. It’s a nice face, if panicked.

“Eponine, Eponine,” she whispers, hands reaching for her. Eponine grabs her hand, holding it tight.

“Yes?”

“Do you think it’s cowardly to want to go gently?” She hears a sob, and wants to make the noise stop, wants to make the hurt stop, but she’s so tired, and her movements feel like she’s underwater. Something explodes close, and her body is too unwired to even flinch.

“No, I don’t,” Eponine says. “But it doesn’t matter, because you’re not going to go. Tell me what to do.”

“Stop the bleeding.” Cosette says. She wishes she could just pass out, but there’s something keeping her awake, a futile try by her body to keep her alive, to keep the blood running through her veins instead of out the little hole in her stomach.

“Okay, okay. Gavroche, get something hot. We’ll burn it closed.”

The battle is long and bloody, and their tent gets three bullet holes through it, but all three inhabitants stay alive, as if protected by a hedge, as if protected by a hurried, agonized prayer. 

* * *

“Cosette.”

She opens her eyes, blearily, and sees Eponine’s smiling face.

“I made it.”

“You did,” she says. A lark is singing somewhere nearby. “You’ll live, according to your nurse friends. You’ll be just fine in a matter of a few weeks.”

“I’m glad,” she says, a little dazed. “Are you fine?”

“We are. It’s the morning after, nearly dawn. It’s time for us to leave.”

“You saved my life.” She clutches Eponine’s hand. “I don’t want you to go.”

“You know we must,” she says, and reaches down to kiss Cosette’s hand. “Before the first ray of light, we need to go.” Cosette turns her head, and sees Gavroche packing a brown sack. She’s not sure how Eponine convinced him to go, but she’d love to hear the story someday.

“You don’t have to live on the streets, you know. My father has a farm. If I write a note, explaining, he’d happily take you on. He’d feed you, give you a home, a place of rest. And I could see you again.”

“I don’t know,” Eponine says, and Cosette reaches her hand around her neck, bringing her forehead to rest on hers.

“I will give you the note, along with his address, and you can do with it as you wish. When the war is over, I will go home, and I suppose then I will see your decision. It is up to you. But I am an option.”

Eponine nods against Cosette’s forehead.

The stay several moments longer, but upon the first lightening of the black sky, Eponine takes Gavroche’s hand, and suddenly they are fugitives, running from God, grace, the law, and the war.

Cosette can’t watch them go, but she can’t let her mind rest on anything else.

* * *

 The war remains bloody and long, and Cosette has dealt with far more than she feels she can adequately cope with. When Lee bends his knee at Appomattox, she cries real, long tears, her body surrendering to the hope it had pushed back for so long.

She takes a long train home, refusing to let herself wonder what will be waiting for her back on the farm. Beyond anything, she wants to see her father, wants to hug him so long and tight, and never let his breathing body go. Beyond that – she refuses to let herself wonder.

The train pulls into the station at half past six.

She grabs her little bag, full of dresses and letters, and makes her way to the front of the train, stomach rolling pleasantly with excitement.

As she steps down the metal stairs, she allows herself to look up, and scan the crowd.

At the back right, near a wooden bench, stand three people.  

**Author's Note:**

> I may have slipped a Hozier lyric, Les Mis musical lyric, and a Game of Thrones reference in there. This whole fic is very self indulgent though, so, I'm cool with it. But seriously, if you like this time period, don't be shy. Surprisingly enough, no one I know likes to chat about 19th century wars with me.
> 
>  
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


End file.
